Page 50 of The Bratva's Forced Kidnapped Bride
My head thumped against the floor, and for a brief, wonderful moment, neither of them was hitting me or grabbing me or trying to cut my head off with a hunting knife. I lifted my head, causing a bolt of pain that made my vision wink in and out. Were there three people in the shack now, or was my vision going off again?
Then I heard a voice so sweet and familiar that it gave me the strength to push up onto my elbow.
“Masha,” Anatoli bellowed, cracking his forearm into Baldy’s face. Grabbing the back of Baldy’s head, he immediately whirled and smashed him into Greasy, who had started swinging at him from the opposite side. “Masha,” he said again, finally seeing me through the fray of flying fists.
Our eyes met, and I tried to smile. It felt awful, like my face wasn’t my own. I’d taken hits before, but never so many in such a short period of time. A look of utter fury froze Anatoli’s face, and his whole body seemed to be consumed by it as hesmashed the two together again, kicking Greasy aside so he could break Baldy’s jaw with a jackhammer of uppercuts.
He seemed to be moving in double time while I was stuck in slow motion, trying to get out of the way of any falling bodies. Where was the knife? I looked around on the floor, about to warn Anatoli to watch out for it, but a muffled explosion left a huge blood stain on the wall, and Greasy was out of the game by a close shot to the chest. As he slumped to the floor, the light fading from his mean eyes, the knife clattered onto the wood floor.
Baldy got a swing on Anatoli, disabling him long enough for him to dive for the knife and then scuttle toward me. No way was I going to let that asshole use me as a shield. I kicked him in the face just as there was a much louder explosion, and then Baldy’s head was no longer a shiny white dome, but a red, cratered mess.
“I knew it,” I said, letting myself fall back to the floor, no more strength to be found anywhere.
Anatoli kicked Baldy’s corpse out of the way and knelt beside me, running his hands carefully over my arms. I knew he would find me. I knew he would save me again. And this time, I wasn’t mad at myself for being grateful and found the energy to pull myself closer to him and hang on tight.
He kissed me gently on the brow, his eyes searching my face, cataloguing the damage while trying not to show me how bad it was by the reflected pain I saw in them. I must have looked like raw hamburger meat.
“There’s no time,” he said, a flicker of something I couldn’t read passing over his eyes. “Others are coming.”
I nodded, relaxing against him as he carefully gathered me close to pick me up. I could feel him tense as I coughed andhad to spit out another mouthful of blood, but he kept moving, out the door and into the chill evening air.
“How long?” I rasped.
“About six hours,” he said, then his arms tightened around me. “I’m sorry it took so long.”
I blinked, certain I was fading in and out of consciousness, slipping into a dream. Anatoli was apologizing to me, and for something that wasn’t even his fault, of all things? It would have made me laugh, except it would have hurt too much. I only had enough strength to hold on, so that was what I did.
He carried me down a narrow path lined with boulders and scrubby desert plants until he came to the same car we’d started out in, hidden behind some of the big rocks. It struck me as funny.
“All that and you didn’t even switch cars,” I murmured against his warm, sturdy chest.
“Had a few other things on my mind,” he said.
The punchy mirth ended in a short sob. “Svet’s dead,” I said. “They shot him.”
He nodded, his chin touching the top of my head. “You’re all right,” he said. “That’s what matters.”
Once I was tucked carefully in the backseat, I let my eyes close, feeling safe at last. He drove fast, the hum of the engine and movement of the car lulling me to sleep, where things didn’t hurt so much. By the time we stopped, I felt like I could sit up and was even able to scoot myself out of the backseat when Anatoli swung open the car door at our destination.
We were parked in front of a long, low hotel with a flickering neon sign in the shape of a sombrero, which could have been anywhere in Southern California, but according to thesigns on the doors as he helped me get closer, we had finally crossed the border into Mexico. Taking out an old-fashioned key, he unlocked door number eight and helped me inside.
It was musty and warm, but there was an air conditioning unit against the window that rattled out cool air when Anatoli punched a few buttons. He helped me sit on the bed, and I leaned forward in a fit of dizziness.
“That wasn’t great,” I admitted, surprisingly not concerned about him seeing me so weak and vulnerable.
“I can imagine,” he said, and not at all sarcastically. I tilted my head to look at him, but if he was recalling everything I did to him when he was my captive, it wasn’t simmering in his eyes. There was only compassion there now as he stroked the back of my head. “Get in bed. I’m going to ditch the car and find you a doctor.”
“I don’t need one,” I said, groaning as I swung my legs up.
He snorted, helping me get under the covers and fluffing the flat, lumpy pillows behind my head. The musty smell was subsiding as the air conditioner continued to grind out a low, comforting noise.
“Don’t go anywhere,” he said, smiling as he used his old threatening tone.
I smiled back as I nodded and closed my eyes. I didn’t have the strength to run away from him if I wanted to, and I didn’t want to. I heard the click of the lock as I drifted back into sleep, but it was a sound of security, not of captivity this time. The cool sheets might not have been that soft, but they were like clouds compared to passing out on the floor in the shack. Most of all, I was safe, because Anatoli was coming back soon.
I woke up to someone prodding me and speaking in fast Spanish. There was a moment of panic until I felt the firm grip on my hand and Anatoli’s rumbling voice telling me I was fine. Or, I would be fine when the doctor was done patching me up. He bound up my ribs and put ointment on my bruises, which was most of my face, and dabbed harsh-smelling liquid on my cuts, leaving behind a healing sting.
Twisting Anatoli’s wrist close to my face, I peered at his watch to see that it was now the middle of the night. The drab gray-green curtains were closed tight, and only the sounds of crickets and a few cars whooshing by made it in from outside. He left my side only long enough to haggle with the doctor, peeling some American bills from his wallet before sending him out the door.
